


Cry To The Moon, "If Only"

by iamnightbird



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Magic, Post Season 4, Sciles, kinda based off the movie it's a wonderful life, mention of past Scott/Allison, what if
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-19 07:05:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3600786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamnightbird/pseuds/iamnightbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> "Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?" </i><br/> <br/>So much death for someone so young to witness weighs on a pure soul harshly, like inhaling tendrils of smoke down a raw throat in the bitter cold. If only Scott hadn't went into the woods that night. If only he hadn't been bitten. If only ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea in swimming in my head for a while with a bunch of different layers for it, and I'm excited to finally start getting it out for people to read. I did have this enrolled in the Sciles big bang, but life got really hectic for me to do the whole thing in one go -- so, I'll be doing it in chapters.

Death is a horrible, heavy thing. Growing up you’re taught that death only happens to the old when they’re ready. That they get to a certain age and they die peacefully in their sleep. Then everyone crowds into a room, talks about how wonderful of a person they were, and sends them on their way with a healthy helping of tears. But, in reality, death isn’t like that at all.

It is true that, on occasion, people are lucky enough to live long enough to die peacefully in their sleep. But – that’s not the way _reality_ is for some. For some, death comes like a masked villain in the night. Stealing away your last breath – whether it is your time to go, or not.

The good thing about Death is that it doesn’t discriminate - if you’re ninety-five, or just fifteen. Black. White. Male. Female. Somewhere in between. Death takes you when it wants you. And no one is immune to it’s bite.

Everything you learned when you were young is a lie.

Everything _Scott McCall_ learned when he was a kid was a lie. It wasn’t a new realization, though. It first hit him when Stiles was eight and Claudia died. Slowly. Painfully. In a hospital bed without the memory of who any of her family were. And Scott remembers thinking _she’s not old enough to die. It’s not fair._ If only Death alluded to the same rules as an eight year old child with a heart of gold.

Scott would be the first to tell you that the young _can_ die. No matter who they are, or what they have done. No matter if they are sent from God himself. No matter how _good_ they are -- or what change they make in this world. If Death wants, he takes. Scott’s known it -- and he’s seen it.

And, no matter how pure a soul is, so much death witnessed in one lifetime begins to weigh down even the strongest of hearts. Because then there is so much room for _what ifs…_ Scott believes everyone deserves to be saved -- and, if no one else is first in line, Scott will step up to the plate to save them.

But, it is unfortunate to learn the hard way that _not everyone **can** be saved. _It is a horrible and earth-shattering truth. And nothing can ever be the same again when you learn it. When you have the cruel embodiment of reality pull your rug of innocence right from under what you believed to be steady feet.

And, currently, Scott was not just on unsteady feet. He was toppling. Falling. Tumbling into an abyss of self-doubt and self-blame. And it was ripping his heart apart like the pieces of a discarded puzzle. Each death he faced was another puzzle piece strewn to the wind -- and, as the puzzle comes apart and pieces broken and lost, it can never be a whole picture again.

After Claudia, the first experience Scott had with death was Laura. Scott never knew Laura himself, but Beacon Hills was a small town. And, even if Derek and Laura had left to New York after the fire, they were still natives of their small town. And there was talk. Derek returning and Laura’s death was a synonymous event in his mind. There was no first hand grief, but there was sympathy for Derek. Especially after the teenager learned that it was indeed not Derek responsible for Laura’s murder.

The next was Erica. Despite it all, Scott considered Erica his _friend._ In his mind, Erica wanted nothing more out of life then to be accepted. And while he disapproved of her turning to the bite for that help, he remembered her _happy._ He knew that under all of that leather and courage brought upon by her change, there was still a scared little girl. But it was progress. And Scott had been very eager to see the woman that Erica Reyes would’ve turned into. Scott refused to believe that Erica was dead at first -- he needed to see the body. He remembers Derek cradling her immobile frame far too vividly. And the memory is only accompanied by a terrible, sickening, _numb_ feeling. A taste of blood in his own mouth. A sense of _it’s not **fair.**_  

After Erica was Heather. Scott didn’t really know Heather as well as Stiles did -- but he remembered Stiles speaking of her. Honestly, before Lydia, Scott would’ve bet on Heather being his first crush. She was beautiful, even when she was young. With those wide pale eyes and porcelain hair. Always pushing herself _just a little_ over her head. Scott thinks that that was what Stiles liked about her. 

Then there was Boyd. Like Erica, he had taken the bite to find somewhere where he belonged. To not feel _invisible._ And, once again, it wasn’t a path that Scott would’ve chosen for him, but -- the beta was content in his new family. Before reality once again came as a cruel biting monster in the night and ripped the young teenager from underneath them. Much too young, much too brutally.

Scott was a kid, logically. Eighteen years old and so much death on his shoulders. He felt like there was so much blood on his hands -- scrubbing until his dark skin turned pink and stung. And the subconscious, iron smell still _lingered._  
  
Next came _Allison_.

When Scott thought Allison’s name, it came like a breath in the night. Lost to the wind and the rustle of the leaves the moment that it left his lips in a chilled gasp. Traveling down his spine and around his nerves like a tapestry that was fraying from the inside out. Too beautiful, too young, too soon. Scott felt like his heart was broken in so many directions that - just like her _name_ \- the pieces were lost to the wind. And chasing them down would only waste precious time that he did not have. Left to howl at the moon like the broken wolf that he was.

If Scott wasn’t so _involved,_ if he wasn’t in so deep, part of him wanted to opt out. Not for self preservation -- he was past that point, if he ever took a pit stop there in the first place. It just seemed like the _deeper_ he got, the more people he cared about **died.** Who was next? _His mother?_ Stiles’ father?

_Stiles?_

Stiles Stilinski. If the sun hit his eyes just right, he looked like the beta that he would never be. The sun cast through the bottom of a whiskey glass as tired eyes of the sheriff tip it towards his chapped lips and the liquid teeters. With constellations of moles that Scott had many times connected in his mind -- across his cheeks and down his back. Porcelain flesh stretched out across muscle and bone. And the only thing faster than his erratic heartbeat was his flailing arms that were only subdued slightly by Adderall. Pieces and chunks of Stiles Stilinski that made a whole person in his mind. Splashes of white noise across the VHS tape that was his memory of the hyperactive teenager. Scents of freshly mowed grass, nacho Doritos, the stink of a locker room, and hints of his father’s gunpowder all nestled into the complicated boy. Sounds on replay of his snoring in his ear; snuggled up close and nuzzled as kids during the crackle of thunderstorms -- as if it were the worst thing to ever happen to them. As if it were the worst thing _to ever happen._ The worst memories stand out the best, and Scott hates himself for it. Crackling fire and nauseous gasoline. Tear stains on alabaster cheeks as the whisper of _Scott, I need you_ filtered into a wolfsbane diluted mind. _Never trust a fox_ stuck on replay like a scratched disc until Scott wanted to burrow his claws into his brain and rip the memory out himself. Nimble hands that he _thought_ he knew so well twisting and pushing at a katana.

All of these different colored spectrums all form the entity that was his best friend.

And because of this … because of Stiles, Scott wishes that he could back out and protect whatever was left of the shattering mind and inherently broken soul that was _him._ If only to protect whatever was left of the little boy who made castles out of sheds and dragons out of bushes.

And that was why Scott was anxious. He woke on a Saturday morning to his phone chiming in his ear with a call from Deaton. And that would mean one of two things. Either he needed him to come into work on his day off -- or something supernatural. And Scott really hoped against the latter. Of course, he could never have it his way; the _easy_ way.

There was a witch in town, Deaton called her Hazel. _(Witch Hazel, that’s hilarious,_ came the deadpan voice of Stiles.) The vet, much to Stiles and Scott’s distain, proposed the idea that they should pay her a visit and try to determine her intentions.  
  
_She would be foolish to try something on the first meeting,_ Deaton had said.

 _Of course,_ Stiles retorted, _Doesn’t mean she won’t. That’s reassuring._

Scott was whisked out of his thoughts by the voice of the witch where they stood in what seemed to be her living area -- her voice rubbed him the wrong way. Everything about her did. He didn’t know what he expected. Green skin and blemishes? Warts and spiked black hats? What made Scott so uneasy was how _unintimidating_ she looked. With sparkling green eyes and dark chestnut hair in a careless braid that was tossed to the side. Her voice was like a song, and he saw the way it made Stiles frown. She was like something right out of _Aesop’s Fables,_ luring them into _trusting_ her so that they could be the cruel moral of a children’s story about good and evil.

“You seem deep in thought, Alpha. Humor me. I could use the distraction from your friend’s disdainful glare.”

Chocolate eyes snapped to the young witch -- _or was she as young as she looked?_ She looked in her mid-twenties, but Deaton had said nothing about the way witches aged. “It’s nothing,” he replied too quickly.

She gave a laugh, a gentle vibration in the back of her throat that made her look even younger for a heartbeat. “Do not patronize me. I know the look of a _wishful_ man. Tell me, what is it you desire in that big heart of yours? Do not think I would trespass upon lands that I do not know the stories of. Oh, don’t tell me. I love a guessing game. Do you wish for rebirth of your friends? Do you wish you were never born -- no? Too _dramatic?_ ”

Stiles saw what she was doing, his jaw taut. She was weighing Scott’s reaction to each of her suggestions. Probing for the right answer out of the hat -- wondering what would happen when she plucked the right one. “ _Perhaps_ you wish you were never bitten? Is that what it is, _True Alpha_? Maybe - just maybe, if you never went out into the woods in the dark - such a _scared_ little boy you were - you would’ve never have been bitten. You would have never been forced into this life, and your friends would never have followed you down this damned path?” She gave a smirk that sent an ill feeling into both boys’ stomachs. “ _Jackpot._ ” The witch snapped her fingers, as if an adolescent coming to the end of a challenging math problem. A prideful smirk written across her lips. “Tell me, Scott. Is that what you desire?”

“Scott-” Stiles protested in a breath as the werewolf stepped forward; eyes surging a red hot crimson as what Stiles recognized as anger traveled around the aura of his best friend. And it was almost palpable. But the witch either did not sense it -- or she did not fear it. Either way, as Scott approached where she sat, she leaned forward onto her knees and folded her hands there. Meeting emerald with glowing red.

“You want to rub salt in the wound, is that what you are here for? Don’t you think that I think about that _every single day?_ Maybe, if I was better at what I did, no one would’ve died, but maybe, _maybe,_ if I never went into the woods to look for that body -- if I never _got bitten_ by Peter -- maybe everything wouldn’t suck so much. I’m just a stupid teenager… what more do you want from me? A stupid admission of a _what if?_ If you’re trying to get under my skin, it _won’t_ work. I’m much harder to break than that. So yes, I wish I was _never bitten,_ but -” Scott cut himself off with a choked noise as dark skin suddenly spotted itself with goosebumps, taking a quick step back from the witch as if she burned him.

“I do not want under your skin, _Scott_. You gave me _exactly_ what I wanted.”

Stiles could hardly react fast enough to get to the lupine’s side as Scott’s knees buckled and he crumbled like a marionette with slashed strings and an absent puppeteer.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my friends. I know that I am terrible about updates -- and I hope that I can be much better about getting them to you quicker. But, life is life as such it goes. I'm pushing out another chapter to see how it picks up and hopefully, the full of my motivation can come back. Because I have some great things planned for this baby, and I really want to write them out to fruition.

Scott would like to say that he woke peacefully that day -- but that would be a complete lie that he wouldn’t even be able to begin to pretend that he believed. He woke the to blaring and insistent cadence of his wailing alarm clock screaming in his ear. And, right from the first breath of consciousness that he drew in -- before his eyes opened to take in the golden bars of dawn struggling into his bedroom, before he processed his full bladder or his body reacting to the new day -- he knew something was _off._ Terribly and horribly wrong. He felt it in his core, in his very soul -- twisting and knotting in his bones and at his nerves. It was like a cold that makes your bones weary and your headache -- like a burn of ashes and soot in your lungs. Like the moment before the collision, the breaths before the drowning. Like watching clouds gather moments before it all falls to pieces. When your toes are on the edge of the cliff top and you are teetering and your balance falls just moments before you do.

From the first breath that was sucked harshly in through his nose, he knew something was wrong. Cold  -- it chilled his insides and made mocha hues flash open ; waking quicker on a school morning than he could ever remember doing in the past -- his body jump starting with an edgy start as a hand flew out to silence his alarm. Once his hand fell away, he focused on the ominous numbers on his alarm clock -- the red battling the rays of morning for the illumination of his room -- 6:45am.

He was still oiling the sleep off of the cogs of his brain to try and piece them together in some excuse of a working machine so that he could pinpoint what felt so wrong.

He felt _weak._ No -- no, weak wasn’t the right word, he didn’t think. He tried to fall back upon his massive amounts of study over tedious SAT words -- wracking his brain like a dictionary to find the right adjective to describe what he felt. Or -- maybe, the _lack_ of what he was feeling. He almost felt like he was lacking strength - which, in his opinion, was very different than weak. He felt like someone had buried themselves deep in his chest and stolen it away from him. Something inside of him was missing, and he almost felt … lonely.

A deep settled loneliness that tore and ate at him before he was hobbling his way out of the bed and into his bathroom -- sucking in a few more breaths of the new day before he was raising his eyes to the mirror.

Dark eyes narrowed -- at first glance, he looked the same. Almond eyes still there. Shaggy, bed ridden hair still drooping across his temples and down his neck. The same scar against his cheek. But -- oh. The more he looked, the more he noticed. And his hands had to grip and and wrap around the porcelain of the sink to keep himself steady as he struggled to come to terms with whatever nightmare he might be having. Because -- there was no other explanation for whatever _this was._

Muscles less dense -- less tight against olive flesh; no longer tugging and pulling at the canvas of his skin ; and, even as far as a normal human body went, he knew that muscles didn’t just presumably _fall off_ over night. But … --

That, somehow, wasn’t the most concerning bit of it all.

The most concerning bit of it was what was missing to the naked eye. To something that he had to accustom himself to seeing each and every morning on his bare flesh to the point that he was now shocked and surprised that it wasn’t the first thing he noticed. Shaking fingers of one hand moved from the sink finally -- fingers and knuckles aching from how tightly he had been holding it -- to smooth and press into the skin of his bicep ; as if something was hiding what was missing. But, all he felt was unmarked, unblemished _bare skin_ in the place of where his _tattoo_ had been the night prior.

A choked noise resounded in his lungs as he took a stumbling step back -- just shy of backing himself into the wall as his hand now came to grip at his chest. That feeling -- oh, it knew it well.

A wheeze of a breath drew into his lips -- shaking and trembling as eyes screwed themselves shut. He suddenly felt like there was a vice grip on his heart -- stopping it from beating from the outside in ; constricting and pulling at him until everything was wired to that one organ. He didn’t want to _move,_ in fear of it hurting. He thinks he’s sweating -- he doesn’t know, he’s too _hot_ to know. To comprehend anything outside the overwhelming heat and panic. And each and _every breath_ was labored. It felt like moving stone walls -- it felt like pressing up against an immovable object and continuing to try and press forward.

 _Your brain is faking you out -- the pain does not come from your chest. It is your body telling you that you cannot breathe ; that it needs help._ Scott remembers the conversation with the doctor well, and he remembered -- before the bite -- how little sense that made to him each and every time he felt the ghost hand grip at his heart ; because, while he knew it was true, it _felt_ like came from his heart -- his very center of being. _It needs help._   


He didn’t want to move, but he didn’t to. He threw himself forward and barely caught himself on the sink once more -- feet sliding, almost slipping completely and his weight haphazardly leaned against the sink. A dangerously trembling free hand coming to shove open the medicine cabinet mirror -- shoving anything out of the way that _wasn’t_ important in that moment. Pill bottles, bottles of toothpaste and small containers of the soap all rained to the floor and sounded like an avalanche to his over sensitive ears before -- mercifully -- his hand closed around the baby blue of his inhaler and he was finally letting his legs give out ; following the fallen toiletry objects to the off-white and faded tile floor. His back dropped uselessly against the wall behind him and he fumbled the cap off and the familiar hiss of the inhaler filled his ears.

And just like that, the wisp of the medicine inside of the inhaler conquered the ghost hand around his heart. Subconscious tears in his eyes and on his cheeks as he dropped his head against the wall, lolling it back as he swallowed thickly and realized that -- this _was no nightmare._ That the reality of this was ; somehow, his wolf was gone. Somehow, his reality was skewed --

Oh, at one point in time, he wanted this. He wanted this more than anything else. And maybe, somewhere deep inside, he still did. But not like this -- because Scott had an encroaching feeling that something was terribly wrong. Something that would rip at the threads of his very being and shake his earth to its core.

The world around him -- it was broken. And somehow, he was _human._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to find me, I'm at motherofangst on tumblr. Reviews are more helpful than you realize.


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